Page 103 of Rivals at Ashmore Castle

‘That’s right, so he’s now in a position to ask her to marry him.’

The female half of the company, at least, responded with oohs and aahs. Afton, smiling, called down to her, ‘Felicitations, Ada. He’s a lucky fellow,’ and the male half made supporting murmurs.

‘In three weeks – is that right, Ada?’ Mrs Webster went on. ‘When the banns have been read. The wedding will be at St Leonard’s Church in Ashmore Carr—’

Whisper, whisper.

‘And we’re all invited,’ Tilda exclaimed.

Everyone cheered. Almost everyone. Mr Moss sat like a man stunned, still gripping his knife and fork, staring at Ada. Afton looked at him, then caught Frederick’s eye. Frederick shrugged, so Afton raised his voice and said, ‘I think we should drink a toast to Ada and her lucky George. Congratulations and the very best of luck to both.’

The toast was drunk in water, but it was heartfelt. Everyone had been feeling a bit let down after the wedding, but now there was something else to look forward to.

It wasn’t, Moss thought in the privacy of his own room, sitting at his desk, that he’d hoped to win her for himself – or not after the first hot-headed folly, anyway, of falling in love with her and indulging himself in dreams that he saw plain enough, now, were sheer fantasy. He was too old for her, and she was so delicate and dainty, like a fairy child, while he was…a gnome or a troll or something big and ugly by comparison.

And, anyway, she had never shown any interest of that sort towards him. Once his vision had cleared he had known he had no chance with her. He had suffered agonies of jealousy when she started walking out with the third groom, George, torturing himself with images of him putting his coarse hands on her, kissing her with his rubbery lips, tarnishing her exquisite loveliness. But he’d had to get used to the idea, and he’d been comforted just a little when discreet enquiries on his part revealed that George Soper was regarded as a good, decent boy who would – probably – never take liberties. His mother was a pillar of St Leonard’s and his father was an honest builder and decorator and both were respected in the Carr, where Ada’s family also lived. The Sopers would never have countenanced any hanky-panky and would have brought up their boy strictly. And besides, he had thought, it was bound to be a long engagement: years and years before George could get on enough and save up enough to be able to get married. People of that class often had ten-year engagements.

The job with Mrs Peel had come unexpectedly, he learned from listening in to a conversation between Cyril and Wilfrid. George’s father had been doing a building job for her and heard her groom was leaving, and since Soper had done work for her and some of her neighbours in the past and given satisfaction, he was in good odour with her, and took a chance on suggesting his son for the position. The job came with a tiny cottage attached to the stables, two rooms and a scullery downstairs and one room upstairs, just barely enough for a couple, but Mr Soper didn’t hold with mollycoddling. George was anxious to get wed, and Mr Soper didn’t think any good came of over-long engagements. He believed it was better for a young couple to muddle through and learn to cope on their own rather than be frustrated and fall into temptation. So he’d given his blessing.

So Moss’s precious Ada was going to have to ‘muddle through’ in some pitiful hovel, having to cook and clean, wash and scrub, with no comforts, probably not even any facilities. He saw her downtrodden in a sacking apron, raking out the stove, boiling water in a bucket so that she could scrub the kitchen floor, carrying slops to the outhouse, her little hands growing chapped and red, her golden hair dull and unwashed, her shoulders slumped.

He whimpered in distress. George might be a decent lad, but there would be no money, never a new dress for her, not even a new ribbon for her bonnet, never a day of rest or an outing to raise her spirits. And if a baby came along…He couldn’t even think about that. She would have done better with him, he thought. He might be older, and a troll, but he would have treated her like a princess. She would have been the one to be waited on. And he had savings…

Oh, his Ada, his dainty, lovely, gold-and-white fairy girl…

His thoughts were interrupted by a tentative knock at his half-open door, and he looked up to see Ada’s face in the gap, wide-eyed and anxious.

‘Come in,’ he said, sitting up straighter, clasping his hands together, hoping his previous thoughts didn’t show on his face. He cleared his throat. ‘Have you a message for me?’ Because of her shyness it was usually necessary to prompt her. Mrs Webster had sent her with a message, most likely.

She arranged herself in front of him, small hands wringing themselves together with a fold of her apron. ‘No – I – there’s—’ she stammered.

‘It’s all right, Ada,’ he said kindly. ‘Speak out. I won’t bite.’

Colour flooded her face. She looked at her feet. ‘I wanted to ask you—’

‘Yes?’

‘If you’d—’

‘Yes? If I would what?’

She managed to look up, just for a peep, then down again. ‘If you would very kindly give me away. At the wedding.’

He couldn’t speak for a moment: to be asked that, of all things! To give her away when he didn’t want to part with her under any circumstances! The cruelty of Fate knew no bounds. But he saw her colour increasing and realised she thought she had offended. He had to rescue her. ‘It’s very nice of you to ask me,’ he said, as warmly as he could, ‘but won’t your father be doing it?’

‘M’father’s dead,’ she told the floor in her tiny, murmury voice. ‘Four years ago come Christmas.’

‘I didn’t know. I’m sorry. I thought you lived with your mother and father before you came here.’

‘My mother. And my brother Harold and his wife live at home as well since Pa died, to take care of things.’ She looked up now, seeming to have accessed some courage from somewhere. ‘But I don’t want Harold to do it. He’d not do it right. And he’s not my pa.’

‘I’m not, either,’ Moss said.

‘But you’ve been like a father to me, sir,’ she said, earnestly now, the hands screwing the apron so tight her knuckles were whitening. ‘You’ve been so kind, and telling me things, and showing me your books and all, like I wasn’t just an ignorant girl, and I feel…’ She took a desperate breath at her own boldness…‘I’d like it to be you, sir. If it’s not asking too much.’

It was, but not for the reason she thought. He had to clear his throat again to be able to speak. ‘I would be honoured to stand up with you, Ada. Honoured,’ he said, and then he had to stop or he might have sobbed.

His tears had started hers. A large, pure drop rolled down her cheek and her nose reddened. ‘Oh, thank you, sir!’ she gasped. ‘Thank you ever so!’